


First to the Finish Line

by extension_cord



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Exhibitionism, Frottage, M/M, Masturbation, Mutual Masturbation, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-14
Updated: 2015-02-14
Packaged: 2018-03-12 21:51:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3356600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/extension_cord/pseuds/extension_cord
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Drift and Ratchet play a game. The game is porn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	First to the Finish Line

**Author's Note:**

  * For [homosindisguise](https://archiveofourown.org/users/homosindisguise/gifts).



> Happy valentine's day!

* * *

"Whoever finishes first loses, simple as that."

"Excuse me?"

"Oh, come on, Ratchet. Don't tell me you've never — never _played_ this game before."

"Drift —"

"I've heard things, you know. About your time at the academy. That you had a bit of a reputation. And a _partying_ streak."

"And — ? So what?"

"So, what I'm saying is your attempts to sound scandalized are ridiculous." Drift grinned and motioned to his recharge slab. "Sit down."

Ratchet narrowed his optics, tossed a glance toward the locked door, then took a seat on the edge of the berth. "Not a word of this to anyone."

"I wouldn't dream of it."

"Mm." Ratchet knew, of course, that the third-in-command would never violate the trust they shared. Drift was loyal, to a fault, and gossip of this latest meeting would never reach the rest of the _Lost Light's_ crew.

Still. This was new. And, Ratchet hated to admit, maybe a little exciting.

Drift took a seat at his desk, then swiveled the chair to face Ratchet, a triumphant glint shining in his optics. "Here are the rules —"

"You're kidding me."

"Hey, now," Drift said, "this first one is specifically for you! You can turn down your hand sensitivity —"

"You're so thoughtful."

"— but only to whatever degree the average Cybertronian possesses. Two: don't turn off your optics. And three: spike only."

Ratchet had engaged in of plenty of lecherous games in his youth, though nothing quite like this, and he wondered if it was something Drift had learned while he'd been part of the Decepticon ranks. "Alright," the CMO said at last. "May I propose an amendment to the second rule?"

"Sure."

"Eye-contact must be established and held."

Ratchet heard Drift's fans stutter.

And then the third-in-command smirked, simultaneously retracting the panel that protected his spike. "Challenge accepted."

To quote an old human adage of questionable origin and meaning, this would be a piece of cake. All Ratchet would have to do was zone out, think about incredibly dry fragments of published medical text, and remember the most _unsexy_ things he'd seen in his examination room.

Drift wouldn't stand a chance.

Ratchet allowed his own panel to fold away, catching his spike as it pressurized into his grip. He glanced up, met optics with Drift, and said, "Bring it on."

Slowly Ratchet pumped, red fingers gliding over his sensitive plating and nodes. Across from him, Drift thrust into his hand, fiery gaze set on the CMO. Behind that challenging façade, however, Ratchet could plainly see that the former Decepticon was trying his best not to let his grin falter — but there was a telltale twitch in the corner of his mouth, and as Ratchet worked his hand faster, he watched as Drift's control began to wane.

Any minute now, Drift would come completely undone. His thighs would lock and his fans would roar and the _noises_ he would make —

— _Frag._  

The CMO had spent one second too long thinking about Drift, and now Ratchet's distractions — the heinously bland medical text and operating room horrors — had escaped him entirely. Left only were himself and the third-in-command, facing one another, and Drift's cooling fans were now spiraling into a slow crescendo as he bucked into his grip.

Ratchet was not about to give in. He pumped faster, trying not to imagine Drift's mouth around his spike, or his warm, wet valve, or the way his thighs quivered when he was on the very edge of an overload. Ratchet bit his lip, attempted to force _those_ images from his mind, and —

— and then Drift moaned. "Primus, Ratchet. You should _see_ yourself right now."

"Isn't talking against the rules? It should be."

"Too late — to amend them now," Drift said with a grin. It was a maddeningly dashing smile, betrayed only by the wobble of his lower lip and the way his optics shone dimmer than usual. "And how come? Afraid it'll — _ah!_ — _excite_ you?" Drift spread his legs wider, making a show of himself as his hand pumped up and down the length of his spike.

"You miserable glitch," Ratchet grated. He was horrified to hear the static in his voice, and then — to add insult to injury — his cooling fans roared to life. "What's — what's your endgame here, Drift? What does the winner get?"

"Didn't think that far ahead," the third-in-command panted. "Just wanted to see you do this. Wanted to jerk off to you jerking off. Primus, you're beautiful."

"So are you," Ratchet hissed, "but don't let it go to your head." He squeezed his spike, thumbing the tip as he tried with every circuit of his being to keep his impending overload at bay. From the looks of it, Drift wasn't faring much better: the third-in-command squirmed in his chair, jaw slack, his electromagnetic field a frenzy of lust and need. Ratchet bit back a moan and pumped his spike harder; he felt prefluid on his fingers, slippery and hot — felt his thighs trembling, his spark spinning faster and faster.

Drift picked up his rhythm, his hand a near blur over his spike. He'd spread his legs as wide as his joints would allow and, Ratchet noted with some amusement, the panel covering his valve had folded away — all lending itself to a very good view and _Primus_ Ratchet was so close.

He made his decision.

If he was about to go down, he'd bring Drift with him. Ratchet stood, red fingers still wrapped around his equipment, and before the third-in-command could react, he'd settled on Drift's lap, chestplate to chestplate. "Against the rules —" Drift groaned, but no sooner had the words left his mouth, Ratchet took a hold of Drift's spike too, and gripped it tightly against his own. "Oh, Primus."

"We're in this together, kid." Ratchet pumped, _hard_ , stroking both his spike and Drift's, their shared fluids mingling over his re-sensitized digits. He felt the third-in-command latch onto his shoulders, and was unsurprised to see Drift's optics dark and mouth agape, his hips straining to surge up to thrust into Ratchet's grip.

"Ratchet —" The name left Drift's throat in a strangled moan. " _Please —_!" Drift's thighs trembled beneath Ratchet as he ground their spikes together, armor plating rattling loudly against the chair.

"C'mon, Drift. Come _on_ —"

With another pump of his hand, Drift's body snapped taught. The ex-Decepticon's optics flared back to life as he shouted, his grip on Ratchet's shoulders clenching tighter than a vice. "Ratchet, I — !"

The effect was instantaneous. Overload ripped through Ratchet's frame, and Primus be _damned_ if Drift didn't hit climax at the exact same moment. Between their bodies, both spikes jetted hot transfluid, and the CMO felt it trickle down his wrist as he stroked them to completion.

As soon as he could muster it, Drift smirked, still shuddering, and whispered, "You cheated."

"Not if it was a tie," Ratchet said, and he leaned forward to give the third-in-command a kiss. "And honestly, kid, I think we're both winners here."

* * *

_fin._

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading :B


End file.
